


You Are The Fire

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, OT3, OT4, Smut, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our Musketeers are forced to take shelter when caught in a blizzard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some OT3/4, and also something less angst-ridden than my usual fic. So I picked a trope, ran with it and, well...

During the time it has taken to cover the two or three miles since leaving the protection of the closely packed trees and the shelter of their canopy of branches, the blizzard has been growing steadily worse, and now what light the watery sun had been providing is beginning to fail as dusk draws near.

Four horses trudge wearily in single-file through drifts of snow that have converted the landscape into a bleak, monochromatic ocean with no discernable horizon, and their riders sit hunched in their saddles as the wind drives flurries of ice under the lowered brims of their hats to sting their cheeks and the unrelenting cold seeps steadily and inexorably into their bones.

Hope of reaching Paris by nightfall has long since vanished, but to stop would mean laying themselves open to the mercy of the storm.

It is by a stroke of luck that a brief lull in the wind and the angle of the sinking sun unite to reveal a hazy, spectral hulk in the distance that slowly solidifies into the unmistakable silhouette of a farmhouse.

The leader of the small party turns his mount towards the building and the wind carries to his ears a snatch of a prayer of thanks uttered in grateful relief at this serendipitous discovery.

The farmhouse, abandoned to the elements but not yet fallen into disrepair, is a welcoming sight to the eyes of the fatigued travellers and they dismount to investigate this potential sanctuary even though the decision to wait out the storm within its walls has already been made by mutual, silent agreement.

The refuge from the wind-driven snow is a much-needed respite that almost stuns the four Musketeers as they step inside. The corners are laced with cobwebs, the floor covered with a layer of dust, and what remains of the furniture is in tatters, but it is a welcoming sight nonetheless.

“It’s no palace, but I think it will suffice.” Aramis declares, but his gratitude at their good fortune is obvious beneath his flippancy.

“Needs must,” Athos deadpans as he shakes the snow from his cloak and hat. The dilapidated state of the place makes no difference to any one of them; they are just glad to be out of the ceaseless, billowing snow outside.

Further inspection reveals to them a moderately sized room with a workable fireplace and a door that can be closed against draughts. Although there is no intact furniture, there is a mattress that is ragged but serviceable enough to give them some protection from the hard floor, and Aramis drags it closer to the fireplace while Porthos gathers splinters of the destroyed furniture to get a fire started.

Leaving them to work, Athos and d’Artagnan head back out, d’Artagnan volunteering to stable the horses in one of the more intact outbuildings after Athos has gathered their bedrolls and blankets from their equipment. D’Artagnan waves away his offer to remain and help with the horses, so Athos tramps back through the snow, growing steadily more disgruntled with the incessant blizzard. On his way back through the house, he conducts a more thorough search of each room, looking for anything that may be of use to them, partly in the hope the activity will start to drive out a little of the chill that pervades his body, almost to his very soul.

There is a fire blazing in the hearth when Athos returns to their nominated bedroom and the flickering light plays over the forms of Aramis and Porthos, huddled together under their cloaks on the mattress. Athos hooks the thumb of his unburdened hand into his belt and regards the two from beneath an arched eyebrow.

“Athos!” Aramis’s head lifts from its nest. “Please come and warm me up. Porthos’s feet are freezing!”

“Don’t hear me complainin’ about your cold hands,” Porthos grumbles from behind him.

His lips twitching in an amused smile, Athos spreads the blankets over their makeshift bed then removes his belt and boots, placing his weapons beside those of the other men, and sits down beside Aramis, who makes a show of shivering and rolls a little closer to Athos, throwing an arm across his legs and resting his head on his thigh.

Moments later, the sound of a cork being removed from a bottle has him frowning up at Athos.

“Where on Earth did you find that?”

“There is a cellar that evidently was never completely cleared out. It is a rather decent brandy. Warming.”

Porthos grunts. “I c’n think of better ways of keepin’ warm.” To illustrate his claim, Porthos presses himself flush against Aramis, not hiding the burgeoning erection that finds pleasant purchase at Aramis’s hip.

“Just keep your feet to yourself,” Aramis huffs in a good-natured warning that Porthos nevertheless knows he would do well to heed.

Athos knows his friends often despair of his tendency to turn to alcohol, to reach for a bottle as a means of numbing the memory of the past and driving away the ghosts that haunt him, but tonight he is not seeking oblivion. He finds he has no need, no desire to embrace the darkness, sips the brandy purely for the warm trail of liquid fire it sends through his body. Still, he recognises his weakness, slides a hand into Aramis’s hair in a silent apology.

A noise from the doorway and three pairs of eyes fall on a gaping d’Artagnan. The young Gascon’s cheeks are flushed, perhaps by the cold air outside, perhaps by the scene before him. Whichever the cause, it only adds to his look of mortal embarrassment.

“Uh…excuse me…” he stammers, stepping back toward the door, his gaze darting around the room as if he doesn’t know where to look before settling on Athos’s feet, feeling uncomfortably like he has stumbled clumsily upon something private.

“Don’t go. ’S cold out there.” Porthos’s voice is muffled by Aramis’s shoulder, but the suggestion in his words is clear.

“We have room for one more.” Aramis’s smile is impish, playful, and d’Artagnan opens his mouth, then closes it again, at a loss for words.

Athos, from his sitting position, has a clear view of d’Artagnan and in the firelight dancing across the Gascon’s face he can discern no distaste beneath the embarrassment, only curiosity, and is now certain that the colour in his cheeks is the flush of the first stirrings of arousal rather than the bite of the cold. D’Artagnan is, however, clearly still hesitant, uncertain.

“Do not feel compelled to join us,” Athos says considerately, showing his ever-present attentiveness to the young man’s feelings. “But remain here in the warmth at least. We will just sleep.”

Porthos and Aramis both nod their agreement, not wanting d’Artagnan to feel coerced in any way; they would undeniably enjoy his participation, but only if d’Artagnan willingly consented to join them.

“No, no,” d’Artagnan instantly insists. “I – I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Wouldn’t be intrudin’.” Porthos grins, his teeth flashing white in the firelight. “We invited you, didn’t we?” But despite his assertion, it is the small smile of encouragement on Athos’s lips that spurs d’Artagnan to step forward, sink down beside him on the mattress and raise his eyes, shyly meeting Athos’s gaze.

“You are all…” He looks at each of them in turn, attempting to ascertain if he has read the situation correctly. “Lovers?”

Porthos gives a low chuckle at the astonishment in d’Artagnan’s voice, but it lacks the mocking quality that d’Artagnan had feared his innocent obliviousness might have given rise to.

It is Aramis, however, who speaks to confirm his deduction, beaming up at him with an unabashed smile. “Yes, my dear d’Artagnan.” He reaches up to brush his knuckles over the smooth skin of d’Artagnan’s cheek, and the young man’s breath hitches at the touch.

Then wide eyes turn back to Athos, for if there is one element of this revelation that astounds him more than any other it is that the stoic Athos is as much a part of this relationship as the others. He has never been as demonstrably tactile as Porthos and Aramis, yet the way his hand rests on Aramis’s head is a clear indication of his obvious affection for his friend.

As if reading d’Artagnan’s thoughts, Athos puts his brandy down, slides his free hand around the back of the Gascon’s neck and draws him closer, capturing his lips in a tender kiss that d’Artagnan is still too stunned to return properly, although a pleased gasp huffs from his nose.

Athos pulls back and levels a serious look at d’Artagnan, holding his eyes. “You will tell us if you are ever uncomfortable, yes?”

D’Artagnan nods swiftly to reassure him. “Yes, of course.” Then he lurches forward to kiss Athos, and feels his lips twitch against his own in a smile.

As if taking this as his cue, Porthos’s fingers began working at the buttons of Aramis’s breeches.

“Porthos, if you do that I shall get cold again.” There is no heat in his complaint, merely fond exasperation.

“I’ll keep you warm.” The promise is spoken in a deep rumble at Aramis’s ear that sends a spark of heat straight to the pit of his stomach, and Porthos’s fingers never cease their task.

“Very well,” Aramis sighs, feigning a sufferance that is revealed for the act it is by the smile dancing in his eyes.

When the garment is loose, Porthos’s hand slips inside and his fingers curl around Aramis, whose hips jerk into the touch, into the warm caress, seeking more of that pleasant friction. Lips and teeth graze his neck as Porthos strokes him hard, only to leave him groaning in frustration when the hand suddenly disappears.

“Now you are teasing me, Porthos,” Aramis chides, the strength of the rebuke somewhat diminished by the breathless quality of his voice.

“You didn’t happen to find any oil in that cellar, Athos?” As Porthos asks the question, he slides one of Aramis’s suspenders from his shoulder.

D’Artagnan is now eyeing them curiously, and Athos gives a slight, regretful shake of his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Porthos gives a grunt of disappointment, but Aramis catches his hand and brings it to his lips. “I am certain we can make do without,” he says, and sucks two of Porthos’s fingers into his mouth. Porthos raises an eyebrow, and Aramis responds by flattening his tongue against the fingers; Porthos concedes with a wide grin and doesn’t contradict him.

Giving a low growl, he pushes himself up and returns his attention to Aramis’s breeches with renewed vigour. His initial incredulity at being accepted as an equal by Athos and Aramis has long since vanished, but he never ceases to be amazed by just how much they clearly desire him and he never hesitates to indulge either of them.

Once Aramis’s legs are free, Porthos repositions himself between them, ducking his head to kiss the sensitive skin of Aramis’s thigh, dragging his lips over flesh that quivers at the tickle of his beard.

“You seem intent upon driving me mad,” Aramis groans, enjoying the attention nonetheless, always just as keen to be on the receiving end of such attention as to provide it himself.

Porthos chuckles, his breath ghosting over already tingling skin. “Can you blame me, when doing so is so much fun?”

Aramis cannot argue with that logic, and all complaints are swiftly forgotten when Porthos’s tongue finds flesh that is even more sensitive.

Porthos, refusing to relent in his torturous teasing, takes great pleasure in reducing Aramis to a squirming, panting wreck using little more than his tongue, alternating long, languid licks along the length of his cock with quick flicks at the slit.

When Aramis whimpers and reaches for him, threading his fingers desperately into his hair, Porthos finally takes pity on him. He shuffles forwards, spits on his fingers, and with no further ado pushes one inside Aramis, simultaneously claiming his mouth in a rough kiss.

Aramis makes another noise in his throat and arches into Porthos’s touch, and Porthos savours his reaction, as delighted as he always is by just how responsive a lover Aramis is.

He adds another finger alongside the first, more carefully this time, mindful of how poorly prepared they are, but it seems of no concern to Aramis who moans happily as he feels a second thick digit enter him.

Porthos works his fingers inside Aramis, opening him up, relishing every sound he draws from the man beneath him. He withdraws his fingers briefly to spit again, replacing them moments later with the addition of a third. This time, Aramis groans, but when he opens his eyes they are dark with need.

“Porthos!” His tone is at the same time scolding and pleading, and Porthos’s playful stubbornness flees at the intensity of the desire in those eyes fixed upon him.

Quickly fumbling at his own breeches, Porthos frees his cock and slathers it with more saliva. Aramis hooks a leg over his shoulder as he guides himself into position, and then he is pushing inside with a groan of his own as he is engulfed by tight heat.

The flurry of activity catches d’Artagnan’s attention and he can’t help but watch as Porthos and Aramis establish a rhythm, entwined together. He wonders of maybe he should look away, afford them some privacy, for perhaps it is impolite of him to continue to watch. But Athos’s hand is still at his neck, his fingers stroking through the hair at his nape, and none of them seem to mind.

Aramis raises his half-lidded gaze to the two men sat beside he and Porthos, grinning at d’Artagnan’s palpable interest. Then he locks eyes with Athos, seeking some form of contact with the other man, yearning for the contribution he would usually be making by this time.

As if reading his mind, Athos instinctively threads his fingers into Aramis’s hair once more, gently tugging and tousling, and Aramis’s eyes fall shut again, an expression of bliss settling over his features.

As d’Artagnan watches, Porthos’s thrusts become more erratic, assuming an urgency that has him rocking into Aramis with quick snaps of his hips that have both men gasping aloud.

Aramis’s lips are parted as he leans his head into Athos’s touch, and Porthos sees the flush creep up his neck and flame at his cheeks, but it is when Aramis opens his eyes and meets his admiring gaze with a look of languorous rapture that the pressure coiling in Porthos’s belly reaches its peak. He rams deep into Aramis once more and comes, his release rolling from him in waves, his mind lost to everything but the sight of Aramis beneath him and the presence of Athos beside them.

Aramis holds himself still while Porthos’s senses slowly return to him and he gently withdraws. As he lowers Aramis back to the mattress, Porthos notices that he has not yet reached his own completion and instantly regrets his selfish oversight.

“My apologies,” he says as he reaches for Aramis. “Allow me—”

His wrist is grasped, staying his hand before he has a chance to touch and he looks at Aramis in surprised confusion.

“Wait,” Aramis enjoins, a playful smile tugging at his lips, his eyes alight with mischief. “We can’t have _all_ the fun.”

Porthos grins back at him, immediately catching on to his train of thought. “You’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?” Aramis quips, ignores Porthos’s answering snort, and, in an impressive display of self-restraint that Porthos can only admire, Aramis twists away and settles on his side, propped up on one elbow, still hard. A glance at d’Artagnan tells Aramis the Gascon is in much the same state. Placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s knee, Aramis slowly runs it up the taut muscle of his thigh and cups him through his breeches. D’Artagnan’s hips buck at the touch.

“It looks like our young friend would like to take a turn.”

“Please.” D’Artagnan’s voice is a breathless whisper, but a flash of hesitation flits across his features and he bites his lip as he looks down at Aramis. He is not a complete innocent in these matters, but has to admit he has no experience of lying with men. “But doesn’t it hurt?”

“It can be a little uncomfortable, yes.” Athos, ever practical and unwilling to gloss over the truth.

“But it’s also immensely enjoyable.” Aramis’s smile gives credence to his assertion, a wickedness at its edges that d’Artagnan doesn’t fail to notice, nor be affected by.

“Yes.” This time, there is a note of amusement in Athos’s voice.

D’Artagnan, his need outweighing his fears, nods mutely and Aramis gives him a squeeze that elicits a gasp.

“Athos, perhaps you would like to…?”

D’Artagnan looks between the two of them, surprised to find himself the object of negotiation.

“No, please.” Athos gestures to Aramis to go ahead, and Aramis meets his gaze in silent understanding; Athos would rather he be the one to guide d’Artagnan through his first time, for he is always a gentle and considerate lover whereas Athos doesn’t always trust himself. It is an unfounded fear, for they all know he would never intentionally hurt any one of them, but now is not the time for such a discussion. Athos is just thinking of d’Artagnan’s comfort.

Aramis tugs at the waist of d’Artagnan’s breeches, drawing him to the middle of their bed and instructs him to lie on his back. D’Artagnan does so, and he watches Aramis’s deft fingers remove his belts and work his trousers open, raising his hips to assist with their removal. Once he is naked from the waist down, Aramis urges him to spread his legs—a request with which he willingly complies, and is rewarded with the caressing touch of those long, skillful fingers on his heated flesh.

They play along the length of his cock and over his balls until d’Artagnan is bucking up in search of a more substantial friction to rut against, but Aramis only smiles unrepentantly. D’Artagnan almost begs him, because surely Aramis can sympathise after suffering similarly at Porthos’s hands, but Aramis has already recognised his need and has no intention of making the young man wait too long.

Following Porthos’s example, Aramis liberally coats his fingers with saliva and presses one to d’Artagnan’s entrance, rubbing lightly. Gently, he eases it inside, his eyes fixed on the Gascon’s face for any sign of discomfort.

D’Artagnan is surprised to find that, rather than painful, it feels merely odd, and not unpleasantly so.

Porthos, quite content to sit and watch the myriad expressions dancing over d’Artagnan’s face, is distracted by the sound of Athos picking up the bottle and taking a long swig of its contents. Afraid Athos might be distancing himself from them, whether intentionally or not, Porthos gets up to move around the mattress and kneels before Athos.

Porthos takes the bottle from his hand and places it on the floor, safely off to the side. It is not a liberty Athos would allow anyone else to take with impunity with the exception of Aramis, who more often will implore him with just a look, his eyes holding a silent appeal that obtains the same result unless Athos is held too fast by his demons, lost to a troubled melancholy.

“We want you here, with us,” Porthos tells him, but, really, there is no need for him to worry; the darkness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm him has been banished tonight, thoroughly held at bay by the presence of his friends—their easy affection, their unquestioning love. The strength of their bond.

“I am going nowhere.”

“Good.” And Porthos leans forward to bump his nose against Athos’s—an action that never fails to bring a smile to Athos’s lips because it seems so at odds with Porthos’s character—the Porthos that everybody else sees—that he can’t help but be touched by its vaguely silly tenderness.

Tilting his head up, he captures Porthos’s lips in a fervent kiss.

A sudden, sharp exhale from d’Artagnan has both men parting and turning to the young man in unison. His eyes are squeezed shut, his hands clutching at the blanket beneath him, his teeth worrying at his lip.

“Relax, d’Artagnan,” Aramis coaxes him softly, running a soothing palm over d’Artagnan’s thigh but otherwise still. “Do you want me to stop?”

D’Artagnan sucks in a shaky breath and shakes his head emphatically no. “Just…slowly?”

“Of course.” Aramis gently squeezes his thigh in reassurance and looks to Athos. “Perhaps you could assist our young friend, Athos.”

Athos gives him a nod of understanding and nudges d’Artagnan’s shoulders, urging him to raise himself up a little so Athos can slide in behind him. D’Artagnan finally opens his eyes and looks up at Athos as he lays his head in his lap. Athos smiles down at him and tenderly brushes his hair away from his face and d’Artagnan thinks it a shame that Athos smiles so rarely, but is elated to know that he is one of the people privileged to receive one more often than most.

A large hand takes hold of his own and d’Artagnan relinquishes his grip on the blanket as Porthos offers him something firmer to latch on to. A worn thumb rubs circles on his wrist and the combined touch of the two men begins to have the intended effect; d’Artagnan relaxes under the comforting contact, the solid presence of Athos behind him a secure support.

D’Artagnan meets Aramis’s patient gaze, conveying he is ready to continue. The burn as he is stretched gradually subsides and the discomfort wanes as he grows accustomed to the intrusion, a pleasant tingle taking its place.

After several minutes, Aramis judges d’Artagnan sufficiently prepared and removes his fingers, smiling as d’Artagnan groans in protest at the loss.

“On your knees,” Aramis instructs, no longer being able to see d’Artagnan’s face a minor drawback he is willing to suffer in ensure the young man’s comfort.

D’Artagnan hastens to obey, scrambling up onto his hands and knees. A little disappointed himself that this new position means he can no longer see Aramis, he instead finds himself face-to-face with Athos, which is a fine compromise. Impulsively deciding to take advantage of this circumstance, he kisses Athos, surprised by his own forwardness – his youthful enthusiasm is usually a little more restrained when in the company of the stoic Musketeer.

Athos immediately returns the kiss with a fervour that sends a thrill along d’Artagnan’s spine, only easing back when d’Artagnan falters, distracted by Aramis’s cock pressing against him. The blunt head feels so much larger than the fingers that had previously breeched him that he can’t contain the hiss as he sucks in a breath through his teeth and buries his face in Athos’s shoulder.

Aramis instantly freezes. A moment later, a hand cups the back of his head, another coming to rest on his shoulder, and d’Artagnan knows there is silent communication passing between the three other men. D’Artagnan appreciates their concern, but the fluttering in his stomach is more a product of nervous anticipation than the fear of pain and once the initial tenderness has passed he turns his head to bring his mouth close to Athos’s ear.

“I’m fine. Don’t stop.”

The yearning conviction in his voice must be enough to reassure Athos, and there must be another wordless signal, for Aramis begins to move again, slowly inching deeper into d’Artagnan. Now he is more prepared, d’Artagnan doesn’t tense up again and can appreciate the thrill of being filled so completely. His nostrils are full of the smell of worn leather, his cheek grazed by the scruff of Athos’s beard, and he feels pleasantly lightheaded at the rush of heady sensations.

When Aramis is fully seated, he pauses to give them both a moment to adjust and relish the delight of being joined so intimately, his hands resting at d’Artagnan’s hips. Then he begins to move, and the rhythmic drag of hot flesh within him sparks a series of keening moans from d’Artagnan that shoot straight to Athos’s cock.

Porthos shifts closer to Athos, acutely aware that their leader had so far allowed the others to take their pleasure without seeking any for himself. He often sat back, never asking for anything, and Porthos sometimes suspected that this was some form of punishment he felt he deserved to impose upon himself. As with the alcohol, Porthos always felt the desire to shake the sense of self-reproach out of him, but opted instead for showing him how much his friends valued him through actions.

Sliding one hand over Athos’s thigh, Porthos curls his fingers around the growing bulge between his legs and grins at the soft groan it produces. Athos spreads his knees a little wider to provide better access and Porthos kneads more firmly.

Feeling the resultant shudder that courses through Athos, d’Artagnan realises what Porthos is doing and feels a fresh surge of heat flood his veins. “Athos…” he breathes. “Allow me to…take care of that…for you.”

Athos’s fingers flex minutely in his hair at the suggestion, but when he speaks his voice is as composed as ever. “Perhaps it would be pertinent to wait.”

“No,” d’Artagnan insists with an awkward shake of his head. “I want…” And there he trails off, unable to find the words to adequately express just how much he wants Athos to share in this moment, and to affirm his gratitude for being granted a place within this deeper bond between the group of comrades that he hadn’t even suspected existed but now believes he understands as if it is an integral part of himself, too. If he could have also offered the same to Porthos, he would have in a heartbeat.

Athos doesn’t move, still reluctant to push the young man too far so soon, so d’Artagnan lifts his head so he can make eye contact in the hope that what he can’t put into words is instead written in his eyes. Athos had long since realised that it is almost impossible to deny d’Artagnan any request, and he knows he is lost as he meets that darkened gaze, even before d’Artagnan’s tongue unconsciously darts out to wet his lips.

“He’s keen, gotta give him that.” Porthos sounds impressed and his smile is evident in his voice.

“It’s one of his most appealing attributes,” Aramis adds, his own voice huskier than normal.

Athos gives a sigh of defeat. “And likely to be the death of me,” he grumbles, but there’s a smile in his eyes as he rises to his knees and unbuttons his breeches to release his semi-hard cock.

D’Artagnan pauses, breathes in Athos’s scent, amazed that he is being afforded the honour of providing him this pleasure. Even when Athos had invited him into their bed, even when he had kissed him, d’Artagnan had never thought he would be permitted to touch him this way. The man was always so reserved, not as openly tactile as Aramis and Porthos, that to see him like this is something of a revelation, and something he wants to savour.

He just hopes he will not be a disappointment.

His hesitance does not go unnoticed by Athos. He hooks two fingers under d’Artagnan’s chin and tilts his head up to look him in the eye.

“Are you certain you want to do this? You are under no obligation–”

“Yes.” That one word, even spoken as it is on a whisper, brooks no argument. “Please.”

To demonstrate his resolve, d’Artagnan presses a kiss to the tip of Athos’s cock, then shoots Athos a quick grin before taking him into his mouth. He is under no illusion that he will prove at all skilled at this, but his enthusiasm will hopefully make up for his lack of refinement.

Porthos rises to his knees and moves to Athos’s side; Athos immediately drapes an arm around his shoulders and leans into him, bracing himself. His eyes are closed, but when the gentle pressure of a hand at his jaw turns his head to the side, he blinks them open and meets Porthos’s gaze in a brief moment of charged intensity before they are kissing again, and this time it’s frantic, messy, all clashing teeth and tongues.

D’Artagnan feels almost dizzy, his senses colliding and merging in an electrifying tempest; the drag and slide as he is filled; the column of rigid flesh against his tongue; his mind unable to focus on any one thing but content to flitter, alight, and take flight again with every surge of this sea of sensation.

D’Artagnan’s entire body is buzzing, nerves alight with an almost overwhelming fire of arousal, each thrust of Aramis’s hips sending another pulse of heat to his stomach. Just when he thinks there can’t possibly be room within him for any more of these gloriously maddening sensations, Aramis strikes a spot inside him just so and he has to release Athos as lights dance before his eyes and he forgets how to breathe. Aramis slides a hand beneath him and he comes at the first brush of fingers against his heated flesh, gasping for air and clenching tightly around Aramis. He is barely aware of Aramis driving deeply once more and spilling himself inside him.

For several long minutes, it is all he can do to hold himself up, dazed and with every inch of skin pleasantly tingling. Then there’s a gentle tug on his scalp that reminds him he has left Athos waiting and he offers an apologetic smile. Athos looks a silent question at him and although he doesn’t speak this time, d’Artagnan knows that he is being offered the chance to stop if he needs to. Not even the sated exhaustion that has settled in his limbs could compel him not to fulfill his promise, however, and he replaces his lips around Athos’s cock.

“Ah, but for the stamina of youth.” Aramis sounds wistful as he admires the Gascon’s enthusiasm. He has always appreciated love in whatever form it expressed itself, and having d’Artagnan share in this with them is perfect—an affirmation of the flawless way he has become one of them, in duty, friendship, and soul.

“You’re not doin’ too bad yourself, for an old man.”

“Very droll, Porthos.”

They were both distracted from their jesting exchange in the next moment by a raw, choked sound from Athos that has them trading grins; they both love witnessing their usually composed leader lose a little of his self-control at their hands, and that d’Artagnan is able to do the same seems somehow inevitable.

Determined to show a little more élan this time, d’Artagnan narrows his focus solely to the task at hand and wraps a hand around the base of Athos’s rapidly swelling cock so he can concentrate his efforts on the tip, using his teeth and tongue instinctively and experimentally to see what reaction he can draw from his phlegmatic mentor.

Athos tightens his hold on Porthos, drops his head onto his broad shoulder, using his solid frame for support as his thighs begin to tremble and he struggles to retain control and resist the urge to thrust into the inviting warmth that surrounds him as d’Artagnan hollows his cheeks. A large, rough hand strokes over his balls, and then Porthos is rolling them in his palm and he is lost. An arm slides around his waist as Aramis presses up against his other side and the exposed stretch of his neck is assaulted by a series of feather-light kisses, the hand at his waist stealing up under the layers of his doublet and undershirt to brush over his side.

Athos knows they are all silently colluding to pleasure him, to show the extent of their devotion, their love, and he is suddenly overwhelmed by the strength of that same emotion within himself – a sentiment that is ever-present in his breast but that he struggles to voice because of the way it had betrayed him in the past.

But Aramis and Porthos, and even d’Artagnan, know, understand, and with his face buried in Porthos’s shoulder, his hand fisted in d’Artagnan’s hair, and his neck bared to Aramis’s lips, he comes.

D’Artagnan tries to swallow but can’t make his throat work fast enough; most of the sticky fluid runs down his chin and his cheeks flame with unnecessary embarrassment.

About to wipe himself clean with his sleeve, he is prevented from doing so by Porthos, who grabs him by the front of his doublet and hauls him upright. D’Artagnan’s limbs are too boneless and unresponsive to put up any resistance even had he wanted to, and he is held firmly in place as Porthos licks the sticky mess from his chin with broad sweeps of his tongue before proceeding to ferociously plunder his mouth. It should feel obscene, but d’Artagnan instead finds it strangely erotic and he clutches at Porthos’s tight curls, inviting more.

Then Porthos is gone and d’Artagnan is left gasping for air and trying to regain some semblance of a hold on himself. As he recovers, he feels himself once again the subject of Athos’s scrutiny and knows he is being inspected for any sign of pain. He can’t quite work out how to speak, but there’s a foolish grin on his face that instantly allays Athos’s fears, eclipsed moments later by Porthos’s beaming smile as he drags both men down to the mattress with him.

Aramis, just out of his reach, shakes his head in amused forbearance, tugs away the blanket that had been beneath d’Artagnan and uses a dry corner to wipe himself clean. Frowning down at the tangle of limbs before him, he gives an exaggerated sigh of mock irritation.

“Look at the state of this bed,” he chides, as if he hadn’t been a part of the activity that had brought about its ruination. “You’ve made a dreadful mess.”

Porthos’s voice floats up from somewhere near Athos’s shoulder, not bothering to even pretend at repentance. “Yeah, but ’s warm.”

A hand reaches out for Aramis and he relents, his frown transforming into a fond smile as he clasps the proffered hand and sinks down amidst the others, drawing a blanket over them as he goes.

Heedless of their various states of undress, and enclosed in a warmth at odds with the snow still buffeting the walls around them, sleep swiftly claims every one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I certainly hadn't expected _that_ to happen, especially considering smut really isn't my forté. (In fact, I almost didn't post this in favour of cringing in the corner, but what the hell!)
> 
> The title is taken from Laurence Fox's 'So Be Damned'.


End file.
